


Jim's endearments

by poeticeclipse



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticeclipse/pseuds/poeticeclipse
Summary: Something has changed in the way Jim views Ryan after the test store incident, and he really wishes he could get a grip on his mouth. Little does he know the dark secrets he's about to uncover...





	1. Chapter 1

Something strange has happened.  
Jim stands in the men's room, staring at himself in the mirror.  
Ever since the presentation when Ryan had his meltdown something changed in the way Jim looked at him. His big blue eyes staring helplessly at him, frightened, needing him to fix it. It gave him the same feeling he got when his kids needed him. And now he finds that protective instinct hard to shake. Which brings him to today. He had just collected his soda from the machine when Ryan comes in in a hurry, pausing slightly when he sees him before looking away and collapsing in a chair in the corner. "Hey." Jim says casually.   
Ryan glances at him but says nothing.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Nothing."   
Kevin waltzes in. Spotting Ryan he grins. "Hey fire boy heard you gave a great presentation the other day." He snickers.  
Ryan's jaw tenses but his eyes slide back to the wall and he says nothing.   
"Knock it off, kev. Ryan wrote a great speech that was obviously impressive to the president of sabre, alright. So leave him alone."  
"Sheesh, chill out man." He mumbles, getting a drink and leaving.  
"I don't need you to defend me." Ryan mutters, glaring at the wall.  
"I know you don't." Jim says, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him.  
Ryan glares for a few more minutes before sighing.   
"I didn't used to get so nervous doing a presentation."   
He admits, embarrassed.   
"No?"  
He shakes his head.   
"Once," Jim says "when I was in junior high, I got so nervous presenting in front of the class I projectile vomited all over Katy Tisdale's mary janes."  
"Did not." Ryan accuses.  
"Did too. Of course I also had food poisoning that day, so."   
Ryan grins a little. "That supposed to make me feel better?"  
"Look, man you're talented okay? Don't let the people around here make you think differently, alright?"  
"Sure," he says, standing "thanks I guess."  
"Anytime, sweetie."   
Ryan gives him a strange look as he walks out.  
Realizing too late what he's said Jim's eyes widen. He gets up and heads to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face he looks at himself in the mirror.   
"I can't believe I just called Ryan Howard sweetie!" He groans.


	2. Chapter 2

It was too early in the morning for Dwight to be showing off his miniature beet catapult Jim thinks tiredly.   
He's just reloaded when Ryan walks in, directly in the path of the now flying vegetable.   
It hits him hard in the face, splitting his lip and sending blood dripping down his chin.  
"What the heck, man!" Jim shouts at Dwight while Ryan storms off to the kitchen cupping his mouth.  
Jim follows him.   
"Hey, you okay?"  
Ryan stands over the sink with a damp and bloodied paper towel. "What was that!?" He snaps angrily.  
"Dwight's beet catapult."  
"I hate this place!" Ryan shrieks, exasperated, leaning on the counter.  
Jim winces looking at his lip.  
"Here, c'mere." He says angling his face towards the light, gently touching the side of his lip. Ryan stills under his hand.  
"Ah, honey I think you might need stitches."  
He says, brushing the side of his lip softly.  
"At least it gets me out of here." He mutters, pulling away from Jim's hand.  
Jim grins. "Look at you finding a bright side."  
"Shut up." He says, moving to the door. "Hey, do me a favor?"  
"What?"  
"Make Dwight regret he ever brought that stupid thing to work."  
"You got it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated:)


	3. Chapter 3

This has got to stop, Jim thinks, lying in bed that night.  
Already I've called my work colleague, male colleague!   
Honey and sweetie.   
And he hasn't even said anything about it.  
Maybe that should be more concerning.  
Does he like it? Has he even noticed?   
No, he's had to of noticed based on the look he gave me the first time. but he's not avoiding me.   
maybe he's waiting to lodge a complaint with Toby?   
"Stop. Thinking." Pam kicks his shin.   
"Sorry." He mutters, rolling over.   
"Is this about your weird hang up with Ryan now?"  
"...No" why does he he have to tell her everything!?  
"I think it's sweet."  
"You just said it was weird."  
"It's that too. But stop over thinking it and go to sleep."  
"I'm not going to have to over think it because I'm not going to call him anything but his name from now on."  
"Ten bucks says you do."  
"A bet, Beesley, really?"  
"Yep." She smirks.  
"Fine, but why hasn't he called me on it?" He wonders, puzzled.  
Pam shrugs. "Maybe it flatters his ego."  
"Maybe." He sighs pulling the covers up and rolling back over. No more nicknames, he thinks firmly, I can do that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this fic feel free to leave them:)

Another year another Christmas party, Jim thinks  
scanning the room to see Andy tugging on Ryan's arm.  
"C'mon, don't be a spoil sport, one picture on my lap."  
"Stop! Just stop." Ryan hisses, trying to free himself.  
"There a problem over here?" Jim asks.  
"Nope, we're fine." Andy replies, making another grab for Ryan.  
"Jim!" Ryan pleads.  
"Okay," he says, pulling Andy away. "I need to speak with you a minute.  
Once inside the office they go several rounds before Jim gives up. hoping Andy mostly got what he was trying to say.

He heads for the drink table picking up a cup and giving it a tentative sniff  
"Hey." Pam greets making him jump.  
"Oh, hey."  
"I think you need to go check on Ryan."  
"Why? What happened?" He asks, looking around the room.  
"He seemed upset about whatever happened earlier.  
He's outside."  
"Okay," Jim says, confused. "I'll go check on him."

He finds him sitting on the curb, knees to his chest.  
"Ry? Hey, man what's going on?"  
He takes a seat next to him. "Where's your jacket its freezing out here."  
He moves to put an arm around him feeling him stiffen and pull away. "What?"  
"Nothing." He says, putting his head in his arms.  
"C'mon, Ryan. You're starting to worry me. Is this about Andy? Look, I told him he can't be doing that."  
"It's not him. Well, I mean it is, but not really."  
"I'm not following." He says reaching out to touch him only for him to pull away again. He sighs. Ryan, you can talk to me."  
"It...it just reminded me of Michael a few years ago and... and my uncle when he'd play Santa growing up.  
God! Why do I attract these people!"  
"What people?" Jim asks slowly, concerned.  
"Always touching me, not letting me go."  
He burys his face deeper in his arms.  
Jim reels. "Ryan." He ventures slowly.  
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" He asks, quietly, jaw tensing.  
Ryan's quiet for a minute looking at him.  
"Oh my God, Jim. No gross!"  
"Well what did you mean?"  
"That they're all annoying and weird."  
Jim grips his knee fighting back annoyance.  
"You are so dramatic."  
"I am not!"  
A scuffle behind them has them both jumping.  
Pam walks over holding Ryan's coat. "Ready to go?" She asks Jim, looking between them concerned.  
"Yeah." Jim says, standing, offering a hand to Ryan, who, after hesitating a moment takes it.  
"Here." Pam says, helping him into his coat. "You're freezing."  
"Thanks."  
"Need a ride?" Jim asks.  
"Sure." He says shrugging and scuffing the toe of his shoe against the curb.  
Jim watches him, wondering if what he's said tonight is completely truthful.

The ride is quite but not awkward. Christmas music plays quietly from the radio creating a peaceful atmosphere.  
Ryan leans his head against the window watching snow drift. He's zoned out when they pull up to the drive.  
Jim reaches back to shake his knee. "Hey. We're here."  
Ryan blinks, rubbing his eye. "Sorry."  
He murmurs pushing the door open. "Thanks for the ride."  
"Anytime. Night, hon."  
Ryan closes the door and Jim's head falls forward hitting the steering wheel.  
Pam laughs. "You lose, Halpert!"


	5. Chapter 5

There's nothing to do, Jim decides, tying his tie.   
He wasn't going to censor himself anymore.   
Not like he had been able to anyway.   
It was just going to have to be and if Ryan doesn't like it he can bring it up.   
He checks the mirror giving his tie one last adjustment before heading to the kitchen.   
"Can you clean them up," Pam asks, motioning to the kids as she rushes by.   
They're going to be late for drop off again he thinks grabbing a dish cloth.

Wiping up spilt milk and tiny faces his mind circles back to Ryan.   
He wonders how he's doing this morning.   
He hasn't seen him since the ride home after the christmas party, this being the first day back after the holidays.   
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of wailing and Cece crying over a barbie doll. He sighs lifting a grining Philip.   
"Be a good boy." He says prying the dismembered doll from his hands.

Ryan's morning is not going well.   
The hot water is once again out in his new apartment, he's battling a hangover, and has just kicked yet another box, this one containing kitchen ware donated by his aunt for her poor loser nephew he thinks bitterly.   
He's in a foul mood just thinking about having to go back to work.

He squints through the murky window above the kitchen sink. It's no longer actively snowing, which is just as well considering he doesn't have a car yet.   
He ends up having to take a bus partway then walk the rest, which means he has to leave early, and he hates early.

He stares out the window, lifting his spoon he scrapes the sides of his bowl, the oatmeal sticking like glue, he stares at it dejectedly for awhile before tossing it.   
One downside of not living at home anymore, no more home cooked meals.   
Looking over the boxes lining the counter, he gives the cup o soup a poke.   
Then remembering the scalded tongue from last night grabs a pop tart instead, better than nothing.   
Stuffing half in his mouth he snatches his wallet from the table and heads out the door.   
The streets are quite as he stands on the curb shuffling from foot to foot trying to keep warm. he huffs a breath into the air watching it dissipate and then another just to amuse himself before the bus arrives screeching to a halt in front of him.   
The door grates open with a clatter, the sound echoing in the still morning. he shuffles up the steps dropping into the first seat he comes to.   
It's pretty empty this early, save for the old guy hacking and coughing across from him.   
He watches in morbid fascination as he hocks phlegm to the floor.   
Turning in disgust he stares out the window and tries to pin point when exactly his life became this.   
It's too depressing to think about for too long so he counts cars instead.   
He's up to twenty nine when the bus gives a lurch, snapping him from his stupor, and he realizes its his stop.   
He watches his step around the old guy and skitters out onto the icy sidewalk.   
He tells himself sixteen blocks really isn't that much and keeps repeating it to himself as he sloughs his way through the freezing slush gathered on the sidewalks.   
He's cold, tired, and still hungover.   
His head buzzing with threats of a migraine when he finally crosses the parking lot of Dunder Mifflin.   
Jim gives a wave from his stupid warm car.   
He glares back and stamps inside shaking snow from his boots.   
Jim and Pam enter behind him. "Nice day for a walk," Jim comments.

Ryan rolls his eyes hard and bites his tongue.   
He's not feeding into this this early.   
"Where's your mom?" Pam asks.   
"Sleeping in, I would imagine." he mutters yanking a boot off, dumping out the bit of snow that somehow managed to sneak its way in soaking his sock.   
He slumps down on one of the benches and stares at the wall. He knew he shouldn't have come in today, shouldn't have ever come back, shouldn't have ever gone to that stupid temp agency in the first place.   
Jim says something from beside him.   
"What?" he bites out glancing over.   
"I said I have some spare socks in my gym bag. You want them?"   
He nods after a minute, running a hand down his face.   
The cold air makes him shiver as Jim goes out the door.   
He leans his head back against the wall closing his eyes.   
"Did you walk all the way from your mom's house?" Pam questions taking in his ruddy cheeks and pink nose.   
He shakes his head. "I got a little apartment. Take a bus halfway, walk sixteen blocks, it's not too far."   
"How long you gonna do that, man?" Jim asks making him jump.   
He didn't realize he was back so soon.   
He takes the outstretched socks. "Thanks."   
"Sure. How long you plan to make that trek in the snow?"   
He shrugs.

"You're gonna get sick walking to work like that," he chides, watching him tug the pair of socks on.

"Well I don't have a choice, do I?" he snaps yanking his boots back up.

"I told you after the party anytime you need a ride."

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

"Who else would make the coffee?" Pam teases hitting the button for the elevator.

He rolls his eyes and waits next to them.

"At least you don't have to wash cups anymore," she offers.

In an effort to save money the office did away with paper cups and provided everyone with ceramic, which he was tasked with cleaning until Dwight kept complaining about rings in his and it was decided that everyone would be responsible for their own. "Well there's something," he mutters as the elevator door finally slides open.

Once they get in the office he heads straight back to the kitchen to start the coffee. More for his heads sake than anything.

He's standing on tip toe rummaging through the cabinet, mouthing silent curses when Jim walks by.   
"What are you doing?" He asks watching in amusement from the door.   
"What does it look like?" he snaps. "Dwight swears I broke his stupid mug and now mines missing. I swear if he-" he pinches the bridge of his nose, headache spiking.   
"Okay?" Jim asks touching his shoulder.   
He wrenches away hurling half muttered insults at him.

Jim sighs reaching over his head for a mug. "Just use mine, alright?"   
He pours some coffee watching him rummage through his bag.

"Dang it!" His palm hits the counter. he can't believe he walked out without any aspirin.

"What?"  
"Nothing." He presses a palm to his head rubbing.

"Headache?"  
"What tipped you off, sherlock," he snarls.

"Be a good boy," Jim replies absently, placing the cup in front of him. "I'm sure Pam has some ibuprofen or something in her purse."

While Jim goes to check Ryan leans back against the counter sipping his coffee. He feels a little bit like a heel. Jim's been pretty nice to him and all, it's just this day, he sighs, or rather this month or...whatever. He scuffs his shoe against the floor.

"Here you go," Jim hands him a bottle of aspirin.

"Thanks," he says, and means it.

"Welcome," Jim gives his shoulder a brief squeeze before heading to his desk.

Ryan drains the last of his coffee.   
Looking at Jim's cup in his hands he sighs. flicking the water on, washing it out.

He sits the fresh cup of coffee on Jim's desk.   
He looks up surprised "For me?"

He nods glancing away.  
Jim smiles. "Thank you, sweet boy," he murmurs.

Ryan flushes. "Yeah, well don't get used to it," he mutters hurrying away.

Jim grins and takes a sip.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I touch turns to angst...  
> Comments welcomed!

Jim pulls up to Ryan's apartment alone. 

Pam home with the kids, who were running low grade fevers this morning.

He watches as Ryan jogs down the steps, hands tucked under his arms to ward away the chill.

He slides into the car batting away stray cheerios from the seat.

"Hey halpert, you ever hear of a vacuum."

"Well good morning, sunshine," he replies dryly.

"So sorry the carriage isn't up to your standards, princess."

He rolls his eyes buckling his seatbelt. "How'd Cece and Philip like the book?"

"Loved it. Had to read it five times. Thanks by the way."

"Sure." he shrugs leaning forward and coughing into his elbow.

Jim grimaces. "You sound rough."

"Mm." he hums leaning his head against the window.

Jim glances over, looking him up and down, pale face, glassy eyes, definitely sick.

"Why didn't you call in today?"

"Tried."

Jim sighs. They must have decided they couldn't afford to have anyone else out with Pam gone.

"Did you at least take something?"

He nods. muffling another cough.

Jim can hear it rattle in his chest.  
his hands twitch on the steering wheel. He can't believe they're making him come in like this.

***

"Are you ill?" Dwight demands jumping up as they walk in.

Ryan gives an exaggerated sniff and a, what do you think, look.

"Don't breathe in the common areas," he says tugging his shirt to cover his nose. "You're spreading germs," he brandishes a can of lysol.

Jim rolls his eyes. "I thought Shrute's had superior DNA and didn't get sick?"

"No harm in precautions," he says spraying the air liberally, causing Ryan to start hacking. 

He gives a half hearted glare before fleeing the room.

***

Jim keeps a casual eye out for him during the day. Aside from the deep cough and nose blowing he seems alright.

It's not until late in the afternoon when he passes by his desk-totally not checking on him-that he notices his hands are shaking and a scarlet flush has stained his cheeks. He leans against the wall next to him, the back of his hand brushing against his flaming cheek without him even realizing what he's doing. Ryan blinks and looks at him. "What?" He sniffs. He sounds awful. Jim's jaw tenses in anger. He should never have had to come in today. He continues to brush his cheek absently. "When'd you last take something?"

"This morning. Didn't help much," he says clearing his throat before wincing and rubbing at it.

Jim drums his fingers against the wall pushing away.

"I'll get you something." He stalks out, past his desk, pausing only long enough to grab his coat before slipping out the door.

If they're going to be made to finish out the day then he's going to at least have a stronger medication that works.

***  
The convenient store two blocks down is mostly deserted. It takes him hardly any time to locate what he's looking for. Handing the bills over to the cashier he decides that if anyone makes a fuss about him leaving for the fifteen minutes he's been gone he's walking out and dragging Ryan with him.

***  
Surprisingly no one pays him much mind. Dwight glances at the bottle in his hand but says nothing as he passes by.

He skims the directions, uncapping the thick liquid he carefully measures it out.

"Here," he nudges his shoulder with the little cup.

Ryan blinks at him slowly. "Thanks," he murmurs taking it without question.

"Another half hour and I can take you home," Jim says patting his shoulder.

He nods sluggishly, turning back to his computer.

***

He's rinsing the measuring cup out when Kelly comes in looking around.   
"Hey, Jim. Where's Ryan?"

"Bathroom," He says glancing over his shoulder.

She pouts. wandering over she picks the up medicine bottle turning it in her hands. "You sick too, Jim?"

"No, that was for Ryan."

"Ooh, bad idea," she says.

"Why?"

"He has bad reactions to this stuff."

"What kind of reactions?"

"Like, really out of it, delirious.

Oh no. 

"Am I going to need to stay with him you think?"

She shrugs. "Nah. Not after he falls asleep. He'll be really paranoid and rant and ramble for awhile then he'll sleep like the dead without remembering a thing in the morning... I could stay with him!" She beams.

He thinks quick. "That's alright, it's on my way," he says smoothly.

Ryan would kill him if he left him in a vulnerable state with kelly.

She gives him a look. "Fine."

He sighs in relief.

Ryan comes out of the bathroom. "Is it the end of the day yet?" He whines hunched in on himself.

"Yeah, let's get out of here." He says, not bothering to look at the clock.

***

"And that's why the Strokes are the better rock band," he slurs, gesturing wildly.

"Uh huh." Jim's tried to listen for the first fifteen minutes but has since left off, offering generic agreements now and then.

Ryan starts to hum and fidget in his seat.

"Almost there," Jim says.

***  
They struggle up the stairs, Ryan leaning heavily against him.

"Are we home?"

"Yep," Jim gasps, practically falling through the front door with him. They stumble through the apartment, and back to the bedroom.

A whine works it's way from Ryan's throat when he realizes where they're at.

"Jim?" He murmurs looking lost.

"Yeah?"

"'M I a good boy?" He asks falling into bed.

"Yes, Ryan, you're a good boy,"  
he pants tugging his shoes off and tucking the covers up around his shoulders.

"Emm ba' boys get hurt," he mumbles into the pillow.

Jim's hand freezes on the blankets.

"Who told you that?"  
"Uncle Dave. Touch touch touch, too tight," he flops onto his back panting.

Jim stares at him in shock, mouth going dry.

He thinks back to the Christmas party, about the veiled excuse of why he was upset, he suspected, but he never wanted to be right.

"Jim? Are there mons'ers here?"

"No, baby, there's no monsters here," he says quietly.

"They hide in my bed," he whispers.

"Stop."

"They touch me," he whimpers.

"Ryan, stop." he pleads. He can't, he can't know this.

"Ryan's a sweet boy?"

Jim feels sick.

"You said!" he screams. "You said Ryan's a sweet boy!"

"Yes, Ryan. You're sweet. you're a good, perfect boy, okay? he soothes.

"Okay," he closes his eyes and is passed out within minutes.

Jim slides to the floor rubbing his face. He feels sick with what he's just heard.

***

He stays for an hour. making sure he's out. kelly said he'd sleep like death for hours and not remember anything in the morning, judging by the snoring he figures that's true. He doesn't think he should be here when he wakes. he didn't really mean to confide in him and he can't imagine an explanation he could offer for being there that wouldn't seem weird or overstepping.

He looks at him in the soft moonlight, a fist pressed to his mouth, hair curling over his forehead, it reminds him of how Philip sleeps.  
God! he chokes, brushing the curl from his forehead, who would want to hurt someone so innocent?


	7. Chapter 7

He gets home that night and he cant stop thinking about Ryan's words. They turn over and over again in his mind, each time producing a new wave of bile that burns in his throat. He stumbles through the darkened house like a drunk man; feeling his way along the hall he stops outside Philip's room to watch him sleep, safely tucked in his bed, night light flickering a constellation of stars against the ceiling, and—

He makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

Sinking to the cold tile he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand breathing harshly.  
Tipping his head back he lets it hit the wall while he stares at the ceiling selfishly wishing he hadn't been there tonight, that he never knew the secrets Ryan's carried all these years. He still sees the look on his face, the tremor in his voice, his mind playing flashback after flashback since he first stepped foot through the doors of Dunder Mifflin.  
And maybe he imagines the tension and flinches he sees there.  
But he doubts it.

After sitting for what feels like hours numbly tracing the lines in the ceiling the pain in his back begins to register and he manages to drag himself from the floor heading to bed, though he knows there will be no rest tonight.

***

Tossing and turning his dreams are plagued by Ryan calling out for him. He nearly jumps a foot when he opens his eyes to Philip staring back at him. "Hey, Bub." he gasps. "Couldn't sleep?"  
"Breakfast," he says simply.  
Jim squints at the clock. 6:30... crap.  
"Yeah." he says, rubbing his face and stretching.  
"Don't wake momma. I'll be there in just a minute."  
"Okay." he says scampering out the door.  
Jim swings his feet off the bed and sits breathing deeply for a minute, willing his heart to settle, everything from the night before rushing back. Pulling himself from the bed he goes through the motions of getting ready, getting the kids breakfast.

Ryan calls after he burns the toast for a second time.   
Tells him he doesn't need a ride. And there's a strained quality to his voice that Jim doesn't question though he knows he should.  
"If you're sure." He swallows against the taste in his mouth. "I... uh, guess I'll see you later."   
But Ryan has already hung up.

***

And it's strange driving to work alone. He hasn't had to do that in a while. He doesn't really care for the silence, he decides.  
He flips the radio on and tries to think about what he's going to do when he sees Ryan. Part of him, the cowardly part, wants nothing more than to pretend nothing ever happened; even if it does leave a sour feeling in his stomach. Deep down he knows eventually they're going to have to talk, and he dreads it. If it weren't for the side effects of the medicine he would have never confided in him. Still, he can't pretend like he doesn't know he's hurting.  
But what can he do.

***

 

Toby's tapping his pen absently against his desk when Jim approaches. He stands for a minute shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously rubbing the back of his neck.   
"Hey, uh, Toby? Can I talk to you for a minute?"   
He startles glancing up. The pen slips from his grasp and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the floor.  
"Sure. yeah, of course." He fumbles with the pen before placing it on the desk, hands out to make sure it stays, he straightens his papers before turning to Jim and placing his hands in his lap. "How um, how can I help you?" Jim's never come to him with anything before, in all the time they've known each other, so it definitely gets his attention now.  
Jim takes a deep breath. "Okay, say you had a friend. Well, not really a friend but a kinda friend." He sighs looking towards the ceiling. "Say you found out something about this person that was really traumatic for them but they didn't willing share it with you. What would you do?"  
"That's tough." he hums scratching his chin.  
"I'd probably start with an honest conversation about what I know," he says eventually.  
"Yeah but, I don't know what to do for them."  
"Would this kinda friend be open to the suggestion of therapy?"  
"I don't think so."  
"If they're not ready to face it right now I don't think there's much you can do. Except be there for them."  
"Yeah." he mutters running a hand down his face.  
"I know it's not what you wanted to hear but keep being a friend to them, ask them how they're doing, listen when they talk, and maybe one day they'll feel comfortable taking that next step."  
He sighs and murmurs "Thanks, Toby."

***

 

He's avoiding him, he thinks, scanning the room. The paper sack with his turkey sandwich in it feels heavy as he looks around once more.  
"Hey, Kelly. You seen Ryan?"  
She huffs "He blew me off to go smoke with the warehouse guys." she rolls her eyes pouting.  
A sick feeling swims in his gut.   
Ryan doesn't smoke.

He remembers.

Or maybe its tugging at his subconscious. Regardless, they need to talk.  
He takes a deep breath, tossing his lunch in the trash; he heads for the parking lot.

***

They're all standing around smoking, shooting the breeze. "Know a great little strip club. Dollar drinks on Wednesdays.  
Whatch you boys say?" There's murmurs of agreement and a few hoots and hollers. "What do you say, Howard?"  
"Nah. Thanks." He says, lazily flicking the butt of his cigarette away. "No thanks? Why not?"  
"Maybe he's a queer. " One of them calls snickering.  
The man grins. "Is that it, Howard?" He asks, crowding his space. "You like it up the a**?" He grabs his backside.  
"Dont touch me." He says pushing him away.  
"Ah, dont be that way, baby." he hoots reaching for him.

Jim sees red.  
"He said don't touch him." He growls stalking over and throwing his hand off. He eyes him darkly for a moment, his whole body thrumming with anger. "I was only messing with him, man. What's your problem?"  
"It's fine," Ryan inserts lowly. He won't look at Jim.  
"Whatever," the guy huffs. "You know where to find us if you want anymore smokes. But uh, don't bring the bodyguard next time," he says shuffling off. The others following.  
"Look, Ryan, if you want to go to Toby with this...  
"With what? A joke?" He forces a laugh.  
"It's not funny."  
"You're being weird."  
"He has no right to put his hand on you."  
He looks at him strangely; not breathing. "You know," he whispers, blanching.  
"Ry."  
"And you told!" His voice cracks in betrayal.  
"It's not like that. I went to Toby. I didn't mention your name," he assures. "I just wanted to know how to help."  
"You want to know how to "help"?" He shouts. "Leave me alone!"  
"Ryan."  
He shoves past him, hands shaking, he feels like he can't breathe.  
Still he runs.  
From the parking lot, up the stairs. His gait slows when he reaches the office, so as not to draw attention to himself.

He makes it to the bathroom and locks himself in a stall, heart racing. Jim knows! He feels the sick tang of acid burn his throat. He's got to get out of here, he thinks, frantically turning in circles, tugging at his hair. He's so caught up in his panic he barely registers the door clanging open.  
He hears someone singing under their breath and he's never been so relieved to hear Andy Bernard's irritating voice in his life. He stumbles from the stall.  
"Andy."  
"Hey, ry'o. What's shakin?"  
"I don't feel well," he blurts trembling.  
Andy pauses looking him over. "Still sick?" He asks reaching to touch him.  
He jumps. "Look, I need to go home. I um, I threw up. "   
"Okay... He says slowly. Clearly disturbed by his behavior.   
"You want me to call you a cab?"   
"Please," he begs.

***

Jim watches him walk by with Andy.   
A thousand questions burn in his eyes.  
"Right, so um, get plenty of fluids I guess."   
Ryan nods, drumming his fingers against his thigh, antsy.  
His eyes land on Jim's for half a second, sees his mouth begin to open, but he turns rushing out the door before any words can form.

***

He stumbles through the door throwing his phone down in anger. The stupid thing won't stop ringing. He finally had the sense of mind to turn the ringer off. Jim won't stop calling him. He casts a glance around the apartment. He hopes he won't try to come by. He stumbles to the wall, flicks the light off and twists the lock on the door. Slumping to the sofa he tries to still his heavy breaths. His knee's bouncing a mile a minute, the ticking of the clock sounds like a cacophony in his head, bile burns in his stomach. He just—he runs shaky hands through his hair— he just wants to stop thinking. Stop feeling for awhile. He jumps up pacing. His eyes keep going over to the cabinet above the stove. He turns sharply, walking circles around the coffee table. He tugs at his hair before marching to the kitchen.

***

He gets drunk that night and he doesn't remember. He just wants the pain to stop. The phantom hands he feels touching and tugging at him to go away. He falls against the counter shaking. The liquor's clouding his mind but it's not enough. He can smell the stench of his uncle's cigar, feel the weight pressing him down down down, hear the harsh commands whispered against his ear. He wails pushing away from the counter and hurling the liquor bottle. It smashes against the wall as a sob tears itself from his throat. He needs it to stop. He just needs his mind to stop. He looks around the kitchen frantically for something else to throw when he notices the moon shining through the window above the sink. It catches on something that shines in the night, like a beacon, a little ray of light drawing him in. 

 

He doesn't think anymore.

 

***

The blade opening his skin feels like breathing for the first time; like an organic high. He loses count of the angry slashes making their way up his arm. Doesn't even take in the startiling amount of crimson trailing down staining his shirt; his pants.   
He switches arms drinking in the numbness spreading out over his brain like a gentle blanket, warm and secure.   
He's transfixed by the vibrancy of his blood. It's so strange this sign of life; and he controls it.   
It all feels so strange, distorted, like he's floating outside his body and nothing is real.   
His ears ring and he bats at them swearing he feels a breath ghost across them.   
"You see? You bring this on yourself, pretty boy."

"Please stop. Please. Please!" 

He screams

letting the blade fall for the last time.


	8. Chapter 8

"Ryan! Finally. Why haven't you been answering my calls, man?"

"Jim?"

"Mrs. Howard?"

"Oh, Jim!" 

"What? What's wrong? Where's Ryan?"

"He's at Saint Mercy's," she wavers.

"What happened? Is he okay?"

"Oh, Jim there was blood everywhere they're talking like it was a suicide attempt."

Jim's blood runs cold and he sits down hard.  
She continues to speak but it sounds so far away, like distant buzzing. 

"You said Saint Mercy's?" He interrupts suddenly, shoving a hand through his hair, frantically searching for his keys.

"Yes."

"I'm on my way."

"You don't hav— 

"Please. I need to see him."

"Alright. Alright. Of course. You come on."

 

"Everything all right?" Pam looks up from stirring the pasta on the stove.

"I have to... I have to go." He stumbles for the door.

"What's wrong?"

"Ryan's in the hospital."

"Is he alright?" She follows him to the door. "Jim? Jim!" She hollers from the porch but he's already pulling out the drive.

***

The drive to the hospital's a blur.  
He walks through the automatic doors not really sure how he got there. 

"Can I help you?"  
He startles, looking at the nurse behind the counter.  
"You've just been standing there for the past five minutes."

"Sorry," he mumbles. Eyes darting around the room, he rubs at them harshly willing things to make sense or, better yet, just all be some horrible dream.

"Sir?"

"Ryan Howard," he says, letting his hand fall.

"You're here to see him?"

"Yes."

"One moment," she says turning back to her computer. "Room 203. Only two visitors are allowed back at a time. I'll have Amber walk you back."

"Thanks."  
He follows her down the hall.

 

The door is open. The only light comes from above the bed, casting looming shadows against the walls.  
His mother sits by his side.  
Jim stands frozen. It hits him. He's standing here, in a hospital hallway, and that's Ryan inside that room. Ryan, who they found covered in blood, and.  
He has to put a hand against the doorframe to steady himself.

"Go in when you're ready," the nurse says quietly, backing away.  
He gives a nod even though she's halfway down the hall.  
Standing in the dim light of the door he lets the stillness wash over him before taking a tentative step forward.

 

Ryan moans thrashing his head.  
"Mom? Mom! I'm nauseous." 

"You're fine." 

"No I'm not," he wails. Distraught glazed eyes blink open and move about the room not seeming to take anything in.

"I don't know if it's his fever or the sedative," his mother says quietly, looking to him.  
He forces himself to step futher into the room, to walk over to the bed.

Both his arms are bandaged, pale skin highlighted beneath the florescents like delicate parchment. He's half afraid he'd tear right open if he were to touch him.

"He's been sick the last couple of days," he whispers roughly, gently stroking his hand.

She studies his face in silence.  
"You know don't you."

"Yeah. He didn't mean to tell me, but."

"I had no idea." She crys. "No idea. A mother should know!"

Ryan whimpers, eyes still fliting around the room. His hand squeezes Jim's and he squeezes back.  
"S'alright." He reaches to smooth his brow. "You're gonna be alright sweetheart."

Ryan's eyes flick to meet his. There's so much fear and anguish there it kicks him in the chest.  
He cups his cheek. "You hear me, Ry?"

He stares at him for a long minute before twisting away, back arching.  
"Mom! Mom, make it stop!"

"Honey, I don't know what you're talking about." She grips his hand fighting back more tears.

"Yes you do!"

"He getting agitated in here?" A nurse pokes her head in.

"It's fine." His mother lays a hand on his chest.

"Stop! Let me sleep! He screams.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step out in the hall," the nurse says.

"Please don't sedate him anymore," his mother begs. "It's just agitating him further."

"We're just doing what's best for the patient ma'am."

"It makes him nauseous." She argues.

The nurse sighs. "We'll try a smaller dosage, enough to help him sleep. Now, if you could please step out in the hall."

She huffs gathering her purse and marching out.  
Jim follows behind.  
"You'd think they'd have a little compassion." She sniffs dabbing at her eyes.  
Jim leans against the wall stuffing his hands in his pockets unsure of what to say.

"He didn't try to kill himself. I know my son."

"I should have checked on him," he whispers, letting his head fall back. "He was upset with me, he thought I told human resources about him. I just wanted to know how to help."

She looks at him squeezing his wrist. "You can't blame yourself. These memories have been festering in him for a long time. It was just a matter of time. I, I wish he would have told me. Why didn't he tell me."

Jim shakes his head rubbing the corner of his eye.  
The hallway is dim and he can hear nurses giggling futher down the corridor.  
He stares at the floor intently. The whole night feels so surreal. 

 

It seems like a lifetime before the nurse finally steps out. "He's resting comfortably now. Visiting hours for non family members are over if you'd like me to walk you out." She smiles at Jim and he thinks that maybe he'd like to knock that patronizing look right off.  
He turns to Mrs. Howard instead.  
"I'll come by in the morning."

"Alright dear, I appreciate it. You drive careful now."

"Goodnight," he murmurs, turning and following the nurse out.

 

He blinks when he gets outside, dazedly wondering when it got dark.  
It takes him three laps around the parking lot to find his car and then just as many tries to get the thing unlocked.  
He slides into the seat haggard. His phone vibrates from the passenger seat.  
Grabbing it he scans his missed calls; all ten of them. He sighs pinching the bridge of his nose. Leaning his head back on the seat he calls Pam back and closes his eyes.

"I don't appreciate you not answering my calls."

"Sorry," he says tiredly. "I forgot my phone in the car." 

"What's going on, Jim?"

"Ryan. He uh, he cut himself up pretty bad."

"How?"

He's quiet for a minute. She gets the hint. "Oh." She sighs softly.

"His mom found him."

"Poor woman. Is he going to be okay?"

"Physically he'll get there."  
Something hits his hand. He looks down staring at this strange drop of moisture, startled to find he's crying.

"Jim? Are you okay, you're scaring me."

"Yeah."  
It'd be a lot more convincing if his voice didn't break.

"Honey."

Blinking back tears he says, "Look, I'll be home soon okay."

"Ji- 

He hangs up punching the steering wheel. "Dang it, Ryan!" He shouts as the tears fall.

 

***

"I'm not suicidal."

"Well, what were they supposed to think, Ryan? I mean, I came in and you're passed out, there's blood all over."

"I'm not talking to a therapist."

Jim's hand shakes as he taps on the open door and steps inside.  
Ryan startles, his eyes widening when they land on him, he swallows before quickly glancing away.

"I'll give you two some privacy," his mother says, patting his knee.

"Mom!" He calls, but she shuts the door gently.

Jim shuffles over hesitantly taking a seat.  
"How ya feeling?" He murmurs at a loss.  
He shrugs picking at a nit in the blanket.  
"The kid's made you some cards," he says, laying them on the bed.  
Ryan's head snaps up.  
"I told them you were sick."  
He looks down gingerly fingering the edges of the cards, a burst of color against the stark white sheets.  
Jim watches his heavily bandaged arms with tight lungs.  
"Why?" He rasps. He feels like he hasn't been able to draw a proper breath since he found out. He just wants to know why.

He gives another half hearted shrug.  
"My mind was racing. I needed it to stop."

"And that was the best way to do that," he asks quietly.

"It worked," he defends. Clenching his jaw.

"Of course it worked, Ryan. Are you even aware of how deep you went, huh? If your mom hadn't shown up. God! If she hadn't been there."

"I don't need another lecture," he snaps.

"You need help."

"Oh, not you too." He groans, moving to run a hand through his hair, wincing at the pain the movement causes in his arm.

"These memories are tearing you apart Ryan. You need to talk to someone."

"I'm fine."

"You're fine. You're in a hospital! You have dozens of stitches, your poor mother is probably traumatized at discovering her only son bleeding out on the floor."

"I wasn't bleeding out you're being dramatic."

"I don't believe you." Jim huffs.  
Ryan keeps his eyes firmly on the blanket.  
Jim shakes his head at him after a minute. Leaning back in his chair he turns the tv on.

"Don't you have to go to work."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says staring straight ahead.

***  
They watch boring daytime talk shows for hours, neither one daring to break the silence, there's no tension, no anger, just a weariness that has settled in over them.  
Ryan's mother, content with the knowledge Jim's there, has slipped out to get a few essentials from her home and Ryan's apartment.  
Every now and then Jim will glance over at him and his jaw will tighten.  
He eventually huffs. "I'm fine." 

"Ryan."

"Please, Jim. I don't want to talk." He tugs the thin blanket up higher closing his eyes.

Jim shakes his head minutely in disbelief at all his 'fines' and turns back towards the tv. What is it going to take to get through to him.

***  
He doesn't speak anymore after that. It's like he's just shut down and nothing Jim says can garner anything more than a shrug from him. He's beginning to think he'll go crazy in this silence. 

"Hi hi." A bubbly red haired nurse comes bustling through the door. "My names Ruth and I'll be taking over for Claire." She moves to the bedside pulling out the digital thermometer. "Goodness you run high fevers don't you." Ryan ignores her staring past Jim out the window. She throws the protective cover in the trash. "I'll bring you something for that fever with your lunch. Have you decided on something?" She looks over the menu he's failed to check off.  
He turns away closing his eyes.  
Jim shrugs an apology at her and she sighs. "Mr. Howard you're on suicide watch if you refuse to eat I'm going to have to let your doctor know."  
His eyes open in anger, fists clenching against the sheets. Jim watches his knuckles go white and jumps up swiping the paper menu from the bedside table. "Vegetable soup, you like that don't you. Could you bring him that."  
She looks between them, silence stretching. "Alright," she relents. "So long as he eats. I'll be back in a minute."  
Jim watches her go running a hand through his hair. He moves to sit back in 'his' chair but a warm hand on his wrist stops him. He looks down. Ryan stares glassy eyed somewhere off in the distance, throat working. Jim sits on the edge of the bed carefully. 

"Ry?"

"Don't they know if I wanted to kill myself I would have done it already."

Jim tries to ignore the twinge in his chest at that.  
"We just want you to get better hon," he says reaching to touch his cheek.

"I don't like being here," he whimpers. "I don't like the nurses, the doctors, these freaking white walls!"

"I know."

He works hard to swallow and breathes out. "I'm fine. I've always been fine," he says desperately.

"Ryan, please just let us help you."

"I don't need help."

Jim wants to scream at him, get him by the shoulders and shake him. He flexes his fingers looking out the window. How do you help someone who refuses to see they need it.

 

The day drags on and It's not until late in the afternoon, after a quite lunch and shoulder shrugs that the nurse comes to change his bandages.  
It's the first time he's seen his arms and he stares at them in horror.  
Stark black stitches march up his arms like an army of angry ants. His breath leaves him in a rush and his fingers tremble. Everything from the night before has been a blur, he thought surely everyone had been exaggerating the extent of his 'episode'. His eyes follow the path of mended cuts from above his elbows down to his wrists. The bandages have left his skin an even paler white and the bizarre frankenstein like stitches seem to jump out from his skin at him. He swallows back bile  
"Jim?" He croaks. 

"I think I need help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos:) they're very much appreciated <3


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